


'Til Death Do Us Part

by DistortedDaytime



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/pseuds/DistortedDaytime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has no intention of attending the Phantomhive-Midford wedding. Grell has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Til Death Do Us Part

Once upon a time, in a quiet shopping district, two establishments opened their doors for business.

Although they shared a wall and a patch of sidewalk, Madam Red’s Exclusive Events and G.R. Reaper, Tax Attorneys-At-Law could not have been more different. Madam Red’s announced its presence to the world with an extravagant Crimson Carnival of Curiosities, while G.R. Reaper’s took out a tasteful ad in the _Times._ Madam Red soon became a high society fixture; G.R. Reaper seemed to appear only in legal documents and behind courtroom doors.

Even their most promising young employees were polar opposites: Madam Red had under her scarlet wing a gifted, if thoroughly unconventional, wedding planner, and the entire legal community was atwitter about G.R. Reaper’s junior attorney who seemed destined to make partner at an unprecedented young age.

Despite working next door day in and day out, the two never crossed paths until one fateful day…

*

William T. Spears puts down his pen and sighs. It’s unseemly to find himself distracted by something as common as music, but the cacophonous racket issuing through the wall his office shares with Madam Red’s seems to grow more offensive with every passing note. The song ends and he uses the brief reprieve to sign the document in front of him, only to start and spatter it with ink when the next song begins.

He takes a deep breath and wills the vein in his temple to stop pulsing. It appears there’s no more delaying the inevitable. Time to pay a visit next door.

Unsurprisingly, Madam Red’s is an assault on the senses. Every surface, from the walls to the shelves right down to the sparkling floor, is awash in decadent crimson fabric and gleaming chrome. The scent of roses pervades Will’s olfactories, but the aroma carries a distinct edge, something sharp and lethal. He stands still, attempting to identify the fragrance, but a loud, melodious voice shatters his reverie.

“Well, _hellooo!_ Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? I love a man in a suit.”

Will turns around and immediately takes a step back. This…person has walked right into his personal space with no respect for tact or decorum; jade green eyes glitter wickedly at him from behind red-rimmed spectacles and a wide smile reveals too-sharp teeth.

“How can I accommodate you today on this fine afternoon? And please believe I can be _very_ accommodating.”

“In that case, you can begin by obeying the basic principles of etiquette,” sniffs Will, but his companion only titters and tosses back a fall of scarlet hair.

“Oh, so you’re a man of mystery, are you? Well, I do love a good mystery.” The person moves right back into Will’s personal space and runs an immaculately manicured hand over his collar. “Let me guess…you’ve come to give your fiancée the wedding of her dreams.”

“No, I’ve come from G.R. Reaper’s to request that you lower the volume,” answers Will, brushing the touch away. “Occasional noise is to be expected when businesses share a building as we do, but this racket is unacceptable. Where is Madam Red? I wish to take the matter up with her personally.”

The person pretends to swoon. “Mysterious _and_ commanding? My heavens, why do the cosmos see fit to tempt me with such delicious torment during the working hours? I’m afraid Madam Red is indisposed at the moment, so sorry.”

Will reaches into his breast pocket and retrieves a business card. “See that she gets in touch at her earliest convenience.”

There’s that smile again. A matching red card appears out of thin air balanced between two slender digits. Will takes the card; their fingers brush, just for a moment, and the person says,

“Consider it done, darling.”

Will doesn’t look at the card until he’s back in his office. Razor sharp black cursive script flows across thick cardstock. It’s fine craftsmanship, if far too garish for Will’s taste.

“Grell Sutcliff,” he reads aloud, before putting the card in his desk drawer with a silent promise to dispose of it later.

He never does.

*

Five years pass.

Madam Red and G.R. Reaper both die under mysterious circumstance; Madam Red is found in her parlor under a shower of crimson rose petals while the _Times_ reports G.R. Reaper passed away in his sleep.

If both the legal community and high society are rife with rumors about the untimely deaths of two such prominent figures and their most trusted apprentices taking over in their stead, well. No lady and no gentleman would ever pay mind to such scurrilous accusations, especially when there is no proof to substantiate them.

Life must go on, after all, and business waits for no one.

*

Will prides himself on taking pleasure in the simple things: a new pair of glasses custom-made by Pops himself, the _scratch-scratch_ of a fresh pen nib on good paper, a drink after work every Friday to celebrate the weekend.

Five o’clock comes and goes without notice before a not-so-unexpected guest enters the firm’s inner sanctum. As usual Grell doesn’t bother to knock; he swans into Will’s office and takes the seat opposite him, planting his high-heeled boots on the corner of the desk and giving Will a radiant smile.

 “Are you nearly finished, dearest? It’s almost time for our date.”

“Your choosing week after week to interfere on my Friday evening plans does not constitute a _date,_ Sutcliff.”

Grell titters, pulls an emery board out of his purse, and gets to work on his nails. “Oh, Will, you’re always so temperamental after five o’clock. Would you like me to help you relax?”

Will’s eyebrow twitches. The spacing on this document is a few millimeters too wide; he’ll have to have a word with Alan on Monday and have it redone. Will appreciates his paralegal’s eagerness and excellent coffee, but Alan is young and often prone to the overenthusiasm of youth. He turns his attention back to Grell.

“I’d like to you leave me in peace. However, since we both know that’s unlikely to happen, do be quiet long enough for me to finish this. We can leave as soon as it’s complete.”

The ‘we’ slips out far too easily. Grell smiles like a cat with a fresh kill and uncaps a bottle of scarlet nail lacquer. “I’ll just freshen up, then. A lady should always look her best for a night out.”

Will bites his tongue on a reply and turns back to his paperwork. The grandfather clock out in the reception area chimes six o’clock just as he puts down his final signature. Grell hums softly to himself, as intent on his manicure as he is on everything else. Will has to admit such attention to detail is…admirable. After all, there’s a reason Grell is the most sought-after wedding planner in London.

“Finally finished, William dear?” asks Grell, blowing on his nails.

Will opts to collect his coat and briefcase in lieu of answering. Grell just smiles and walks right to Will’s side, taking his arm and ignoring the irritated sigh he gets in response.

They leave the office and go to Scotland Yard. It’s perfectly, perversely Grell to favor a pub named after such a masculine institution, but neither the patrons nor the staff treat him with anything but the utmost respect after what Will privately calls the Cretin Incident. Will paid for the damage and Grell complained for days afterwards about the blood on his boots, but the point was well made and they’ve been left in peace ever since.

Grell claims their normal booth in the back corner while Will heads for the bar. The bartender smiles at him.

“The usual, guv? G & T for you and a Cosmopolitan for your lovely gent? Pretty as a rose, he is.”

“And sharp as the rose’s thorn,” says Will, passing over a twenty pound note. “Keep the change.”

Grell smiles as Will comes back to their table. He takes a dainty sip of his drink. “Mm, wonderful, darling, thank you.”

They sit in companionable silence for a few moments, each relishing the weekend ahead. Of course, neither of their occupations make it possible for the work to ever be truly done, but it’s a pleasant thought.

“William, I meant to ask you,” Grell begins, but Will cuts him off.

“Sutcliff, you know I’m bound by the strictest laws of confidentiality, and am therefore forbidden from breaching my clients’ trust, no matter how, ah, _juicy_ the gossip may be.”

Grell laughs. “While I do so love your tireless dedication to rules and regulations, I have no interest in tax affairs or the upper crust’s whining about being marginally less wealthy than they were last January. No, I wanted to know if you have any engagements on February 14th.”

“I have nothing planned at the moment, why do you ask?”

Grell’s expression takes on a distinctly calculating edge. “The Midford-Phantomhive wedding is that evening, as I’m sure you’ve heard. It’s _the_ social event of the year, perfectly planned and presided over by yours truly, of course…”

“Of course,” Will deadpans.

“And it’s positively unseemly for someone as beautiful as I to appear at such a fabulous gala without a proper escort,” finishes Grell. He looks at Will through his eyelashes. “Won’t you be my date for the evening?”

Will downs half of his gin and tonic in one sip. “Absolutely not,” he answers, and Grell pouts.

“But why not?”

“Do you really need an answer, Sutcliff? In all the years of our acquaintance have you ever known me to engage in such frippery?”

Grell lets out an outraged squawk. Will ignores him and continues, “Besides, won’t you be working all evening? What use would you have for a date?”

“It’s the _principle,_ dearest. And besides, I always save plenty of time for pleasure. Oh, how I love weddings! Please, Will?” Grell wheedles. “For me?”

“Out of the question.”

“I didn’t want to have to resort to such tactics, but seeing as you’ve left me no choice…” Grell reaches inside his coat and removes a pale pink envelope. “The Midfords are ever so grateful for all of G.R. Reaper’s fine work over the years. It’s only natural for them to invite you to share in Elizabeth’s special day.”

Will eyes the envelope like it’s a poisonous spider before reaching out to take it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Well? Aren't you going to open it?"

Keeping his face neutral, Will allows himself the satisfaction of tearing into the envelope, only to have his satisfaction vanish as a cloud of sweet-scented powder poofs out. He'll have to send this suit out to be cleaned now, lest he meet a client smelling of candy and flowers, to say nothing of the sparkles. 

"Glitter, Sutcliff? Really, I thought so much better of you."

"Oh, why, that was at the request of Miss Midford. The Lady Elizabeth wishes for everything to be, and I quote, 'simply adorable.' Her wish is my command. Do read the card, William, go on."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Will does as he's told:

"'The Marquis and Marchioness Midford humbly request the presence of William T. Spears as they celebrate the joining of their beloved daughter Elizabeth to Lord Ciel Phantomhive in holy matrimony.'" He looks up and meets Grell's delighted grin with a cool eye.

"You are a rogue and a scoundrel, Sutcliff, to use an innocent girl's wedding day for your own ends."

"You're so cruel to me," laughs Grell, playing with the citrus twist in his glass. "Does this mean you'll be my date?"

It can't be helped. To refuse the Midfords would be an unforgivable breech of etiquette, no matter how distasteful he finds the whole affair.

"I will accompany you with the strictest distinction that this is _not_ a date," says Will, and downs the rest of his drink. "Another?"

"Mm, please."

Grell's foot tangles with his under the table when Will returns from the bar. He doesn't dislodge it.

*

As is customary in the weeks leading up to an important wedding, Grell devotes himself wholly to the event, and as a result Will barely sees him. Even their week's end ritual is disrupted; Will finds himself looking at his office door on Friday evenings, expecting to see a flash of crimson or hear high heels clicking against the hardwood floors, but nothing comes. He tells himself he’s grateful for the reprieve and almost manages to believe it.

Finally, a week prior to the Phantomhive-Midford nuptials, a message arrives for Will, printed on the scarlet stationary he's all too familiar with.

"Lovely handwriting, Sir," comments Alan. "Would you like me to read it out to you?"

Will nods, not looking up from his paperwork. "Go on."

“‘Dearest William, I do apologize for my recent absence. Even when duty calls my heart is aflutter with the very thought of-’"

"Thank you, Alan," interjects Will, deliberately _not_ snatching the note from his hand. "I'll take that. You may go."

Alan, to his credit, maintains a mostly neutral expression as he takes his leave. Will allows himself a moment to prepare, clears his throat, and continues reading:

_I've taken the liberty of scheduling you an appointment with my tailor, to ensure you look your best. Oh, sweetheart, don't make that face_ -

Will wipes the distaste away from his expression, perturbed at his own predictability as he reads on.

_You know you're always irresistible to me, no matter how staid your suits are. Really, William, a pop of color will do you good. He will be at your office at 3 o'clock. I've already cleared it with Alan, so there's no point in rescheduling. Kisses, darling. Ever yours, Grell._

Will checks the clock. 2:56. Bugger.

*

At precisely three o’clock, a chill wind blows through the office. Will looks up from his rustling papers and silently curses whatever fresh inconvenience is forthcoming. A moment later, a very shaken Alan appears at the door.

"The- the Tailor is here to see you, Sir."

Will puts aside his disquiet and nods. "Send him in."

Grell's tailor looks nothing like the craftsmen or the seamstresses on the High Street. His top hat and coat are faded to a dusty black and his silver hair obscures his eyes down to a long jagged scar that travels across his pale face. He executes a flawless mockery of a royal curtsy and beams at Will.

“Good afternoon, milord. If you’d be so kind as to stand up and remove your coat.”

He breaks off, snickering. Will bristles. This is absolute nonsense; best to get it over with before Grell waltzes over and makes his nightmare complete.

The tape measure seems to move on its own, a liquid ribbon through the air as the Tailor pokes and prods Will. 

"Oh, you're going to look dashing, Sir, yes you are! The red gent was right about your measurements. Such an eye for detail, it's no wonder the ladies clamber right for him!" 

"I wouldn't know anything about that," says Will stiffly. "What abomination of decorum is Sutcliff going to trot me out in?"

"Now, Sir, I wouldn't be so quick to judge. Bad quality, if you ask me. No, no, you get a lovely new waistcoat and tie."

"What color?"

The Tailor cackles and slaps his knee like that's the most amusing thing he's ever heard. "I think you already know the answer to that, Sir."

Will groans. 

*

His suspicions are confirmed when a scarlet waistcoat and tie arrive at his flat the morning of the wedding. A blank piece of rose-scented stationery hangs out of the breast pocket; there's no signature but Will doesn't need one. The red lipstick print says more than words ever could. 

Will keeps coming back to the card as he prepares for the evening's events. Perhaps it's some rare form of Stockholm Syndrome, but he finds he _has_ missed Grell's company throughout the hustle and bustle surrounding the Phantomhive wedding. Over the years Grell has made himself as much a part of Will's life as tea and tax forms; his sudden absence is disquieting.

Grell is waiting outside the church as promised, looking...Will blinks. 

"Black, Sutcliff?"

Indeed, compared to his normal attire, Grell looks positively subdued. His crimson coat has been replaced by a black suit and waistcoat while round spectacles cover half his face. Even his hair is different, concealed by a brunette wig that accents his pale skin. The red bow at the back of his ponytail is the only nod to Grell’s signature color and the entire thing feels...off, as if Grell is playing a role he's ill-suited for.

"Do you like it?” he asks, fluttering his eyelashes at Will.

"I almost didn't recognize you. What is the..." Will gestures at Grell's suit. "I thought you planned weddings, not funerals.”

Grell laughs and takes Will’s arm. “Oh, darling, if I was dressed in my usual way then all of the attention would be on me! Ladies would swoon, men would be consumed by lust, and the entire affair would be a disaster. No, no. Every day is my day to be the most beautiful one in the room, but today is the bride’s day. I won’t have anything take away from her happiness.”

"That's surprisingly thoughtful of you, Sutcliff," says Will. He offers his arm. "Show me to my seat, if you'd be so kind."

He surveys the church as they walk inside. Late afternoon sunlight cascades through the stained glass to cast multicolored shapes across the sanctuary. Woven flower garlands adorn the rafters with splashes of color, raining down a gentle cascade of petals that dissolve without a trace before they hit the ground. The pews on the bride's side feature the Midford's sigil while those on the groom's side carry the Phantomhive crest. There's no denying Grell's keen eye for design and detail, or his single-minded devotion to his work. Will is even willing to forgive the glitter.

"Will, dearest, I'm afraid we must be parted while I tend to the last-minute preparations. Don't pine for me too much, just imagine the hour of my return and the time will fly by."

"I'll refrain from rending my garments in sorrow," Will monotones.

"Good. It would be a shame to damage those clothes when you look so delectable in them/”

With a sharp grin Grell sashays off, leaving Will to stare after him. 

*

It's a lovely ceremony, if more than a bit long-winded even before the vows begin. The clergyman drones on and on about the sanctity of matrimony, a pink-clad children's choir sings, and a string quartet plays before the wedding party enters. Finally the bride walks down the aisle.

"Isn't she lovely?" coos the woman to Will's left.

"Radiant," agrees Will, and refrains from commenting that Elizabeth's dress rather resembles an expensive French pastry.

When the clergyman intones, "Dearly beloveds," Will looks around for Grell and finds him in the back of the sanctuary, mouthing every word in the ceremony as if he knows them all by heart.

Grell raises one elegant eyebrow when he catches Will staring, but the corner of his mouth tilts up in a small secret smile.

Will returns it without a second thought.

*

He doesn't see Grell again until the wedding guests have adjourned to the banquet hall for the reception. Will makes his rounds as etiquette dictates, greeting the Midfords and thanking them for the invitation before offering his sincerest congratulations to the new couple. Social obligations met, he helps himself to a salmon croquette and a glass of champagne.

"Enjoying yourself, dearest?” asks Grell.

Will nods and lifts his glass. "Dom Peregnon on someone else's expense account? Yes, Sutcliff, I certainly am." He looks around the banquet hall at the gilded cherubs and sparkling perfumed fountain centerpiece. "I admire your light hand with the decorations."

"Yes, well, not every bride is suited to pinstriped satin trousers and crimson roses with the thorns still attached.”

"I think those would suit you very well indeed," says Will, and that earns him another one of those private smiles.

"Why, William, I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. Come, let's dance!"

"What, no, I don't-" Will sputters as Grell drags him out onto the dance floor. "Sutcliff, unhand me at once!"

"What was that? I can't hear you over the rhythm of my heart," laughs Grell, and pulls him far too close to maintain any veil of propriety.

The orchestra strikes up a merry tune Will is unfamiliar with, leaving him with no choice but to let Grell lead. It isn't...thoroughly unpleasant. Grell is an excellent dancer; even in flat shoes he's as tall as Will himself, his body strong and warm despite his dainty appearance. It's easy, perhaps too easy, for Will to be swept away on good food and other people's good cheer, and pleasant to allow himself the luxury for once.

The vigorous motions cause Grell's wig to slip. Will reaches up to straighten it, and pauses.

"The vows have been taken and the cake has been cut. Surely you're allowed to reclaim your mantel as the fairest in the room?"

Grell pretends to think about it. "Well, I suppose revealing my true beauty is inevitable. Go ahead, Will."

The wig comes loose with a gentle tug and Grell's scarlet hair tumbles free. He tosses it back with a relieved laugh, retrieving his normal glasses from inside his coat and replacing the round spectacles with a flourish. He looks much like himself again, far less like the watered down version Will was beginning to chafe at.

"There you are," he says softly, reaching out, unthinking, to tuck a lock of hair behind Grell's ear. Grell's eyes widen and Will freezes, but when Grell makes no move to pull away from him Will remains in place. Something passes between them, neither as sudden as a spark nor as consuming as a deluge, but warm and welcome as a quilt on a cold winter's night.

"Grell, I..." he starts, only to be interrupted by a high-pitched voice calling out,

"Grell, Grell, my darling, there you are!"

The Lady Elizabeth Phantomhive comes hurtling towards them and cuts in without a second look at Will.

"Oh, dearest, my wedding was simply _adorable!_ I can’t thank you enough. Why, even my great aunt Mildred said it was lovely, and she's a _dreadful_ bore..."

Grell bears all of her enthusiasm with the utmost modesty and decorum. Even Will is willing to forgive her prattle. A girl's wedding day comes but once, after all, and she is entitled to the full extent of her happiness.

"Sutcliff, I'm going to get some air. Mrs. Phantomhive, my deepest congratulations again."

Taking a glass of water from a passing waiter, Will makes his way down the hall to the hidden staircase he'd spotted earlier. It's a quick ascent to the second floor balcony that oversees a generous courtyard; the cool night air is an excellent balm on Will's frazzled nerves. His...attraction to Grell comes as no surprise, and has existed for longer than Will likes to admit. The urge to act on it, however, is new.

He stays upstairs until the first cabs begin to arrive. One by one the guests trickle out in various states of inebriation and merriment; eventually the Phantomhives depart in a gilded horse-drawn carriage accompanied by cheering and bawdy remarks. Will lifts his glass to the departing couple, offering a silent salute.

"A fitting tribute, Will dear, but a proper toast calls for champagne," comes Grell's voice from the doorway.

Will turns around. Grell is back in his normal attire, carrying a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He looks softer and more relaxed now, satisfied that his job has been done and done well. 

"You're right," Will tells him. "Pour the drinks, then, and let's have a proper toast."

Smiling, Grell complies. "To the Phantomhives. May their union be harmonious, their purse be full, and their bed be active."

Will snorts, but raises his glass. "And to Grell Sutcliff, a scoundrel and a deviant of the most unrepentant kind. May he continue to favor the brides of London with his unrivaled talents, and may he..."

Will falters. Grell takes a step closer.

"Go on, please, Will?"

"And may he continue to favor me with his company."

Grell's smile turns effervescent. "I'll certainly drink to that.” He snakes an arm around Will’s waist. “Does the fairest of them all get a kiss, darling?”

“I believe everyone saw Mrs. Phantomhive get a kiss from her new husband,” Will deadpans, and allows himself a hint of a smile when Grell pouts. “You are a most demanding companion, Sutcliff.”

Grell launches himself into Will’s arms with an affronted huff. “I’ll show you _demanding,_ you-”

Will cuts him off with a kiss. He tastes champagne, wedding cake, and promise.


End file.
